Dylan Jones: Stand and deliver (but make it quick)

The killer anecdote, the slick delivery, the appreciative audience ... you too could make the perfect speech. Well, if David Cameron can

Hindsight has its clammy

fingers on the final judgment, but from a ten-week

distance, one of the highlights of the year, even for fervent non-believers, has to be David Cameron's speech at the Tory party conference in October.

Just minutes after he left the stage, having spoken without notes for over an hour, even those who hate the ground he walks on were soon muttering grudging (if shrill) respect.

You can still

see the speech on the Conservative Party website, and it should be required viewing for anyone who wants to see what Britain could be like over the next ten years.

And unlike the Prime Minister (who hates the ground David Cameron walks on more than anyone else in this country or his own), who didn't mention Cameron at all in his Labour conference speech the week before, the Conservative leader devoted a chunk of his address to his opposite number.

"Boy, has this guy got a plan," said DC, as he roamed around the stage, trying to catch as many blue eyes as possible.

"It's to appeal to those four per cent of people in the marginal seats with a dog whistle about immigration here, about crime there, wrap yourself up in the flag and maybe you convince people you are on their side."

But not only did Brown not take out his dog whistle at all, but he turned the country – and the media, who suddenly noticed the same self-delusional tendencies they'd been seeing in General Musharraf for years – against him in the space of one disastrous interview with the BBC's Andrew Marr on October 7.

This was the biggest political turnaround since the Falklands, and proved – in case we had, thanks to Gordon Brown's almost unbelievably seamless coronation, temporarily forgotten – that a week is not only a long time in politics; it's often an age.

I witnessed a few speeches of varying quality several weeks ago, at this year's Parliamentarian Awards, organised by The Spectator magazine and sponsored by Threadneedle, and held with some style

at Claridge's.

This being a lunchtime affair, it was dignified, formal and mercifully

short. My enjoyment was enhanced by sharing a table with Andrew Marr, Tory gatekeeper Andy Coulson and Caprice (who, uncharacteristically, and against the mood of the room, said she thought guest of honour John Reid was a "real sweetie"), although like everyone else, it was the speeches I'd come to hear.

George Osborne was carefully self-deprecating (and looked as though he was already working out ways to get rid of Alistair Darling), Spectator editor Matthew d'Ancona was effortlessly commanding, William Hague showed why he is one of the highest-paid public speakers of modern times, and Iain Duncan Smith proved yet again why he was never Prime Minister (if you're following William Hague, don't try to tell a joke, even if it's the best one you've got).

Boris Johnson was also in attendance, although on this occasion not speaking. Whenever he sees me, Boris always comes up and asks when he's about to be fired (he reviews cars for GQ), and as this is Boris's way of fishing for compliments, I then go into a well-rehearsed bit of fawning, tugging my (metaphorical) forelock as I go.

He asked if he could count on us to support his mayoral campaign come the spring, and I naturally said yes (why would anyone support Ken Livingstone?), even suggesting that he start reviewing bicycles instead of cars in a bid to ingratiate himself with those left-leaning folk who frown upon the internal-combustion engine. At this Boris did the Boris frown and then went over to chat up Melvyn Bragg.

I've heard Boris speak many times before, and he's another politician who can pull rabbits out of hats if he chooses to (usually without notes), although I sometimes think he should look as though he's done his homework, even though he likes to go out of his way to pretend otherwise.

Earlier in the year, I gave quite a few speeches myself in support of a recently published book, and having told my stories several times, to a rather diverse selection of people – I spoke at everything from the Kit Kat Club (all professional babes) to the Eton College Editorial Society (all 16-year-old future Prime Ministers) – I quite quickly got a sense of what parts were likely to go down well, and which were likely to send people to the BlackBerries stuffed at the bottom of their handbags and manbags.

One sure-fire winner was a story about Norman St John-Stevas (who, incidentally, was given a special award at the Parliamentarian Awards in 1986), although my banker came courtesy of Claus Von Bülow (who, the lawyers have asked me to point out, was tried in 1982 for the attempted murder of his wealthy wife Sunny; after being found guilty he was acquitted on appeal).

At a press reception in London back in the mists of time, Von Bülow, who was famously portrayed on the big screen by Jeremy Irons, went up to a society photographer, looked him up and down and said, in a rather loud voice, "Wearing brown shoes with a black suit is one of the worst social crimes of all."

To which the photographer replied, to his credit, and in a much louder voice, "Well at least I didn't murder my wife."